“I just have a feeling, Marianne, that is all,” Claire said.
She closed the magazine with a sharp slap, her face tightening into a hard, defensive mask.
“But we should have a list ready either way,” I said, leaning forward.
“Just in case,” I added, watching her expression closely.
“There is no just in case,” Claire said, her voice thin and sharp.
She stood up, smoothing her skirt with both hands as if she could brush away the conversation.
“I have to get back,” she said, looking toward the window.
“Evan is waiting for me to review some files,” she added, her voice returning to its light, girlish pitch.
“You forgot your magazines,” I said, pointing to the sofa.
“Keep them,” Claire said, walking toward the hallway.
“They are only for inspiration,” she added, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor.
I followed her to the entryway, but she was already opening her umbrella before she even reached the porch.
She walked out into the cool evening air, Claire leaving the house while deliberately leaving the nursery magazines behind on the sofa.
The community center hall smelled of lemon floor wax and old coffee. I carried a plastic plate of supermarket cookies costing four dollars toward the long table where the gifts were piled high in bright wrappers.
Pink paper bells hung from the ceiling tiles, turning slowly in the draft from the double doors. Claire stood near the punch bowl, her fingers tapping against her phone screen, her eyes fixed on the entrance rather than the guests.
“Claire, you haven’t opened the card from Aunt Helen yet,” I said, setting the plate down by the napkins.
She did not look at the card, nor did she look at the miniature pink booties knitted by our neighbor. She kept her hands wrapped tightly around a glass of ginger ale.
“We have plenty of time for cards, sweetie,” Claire said, her voice rising to that high, childish pitch she used when she wanted to soften a room.
Brenda, my supervisor from the pediatric dental clinic, reached out to pat my baby bump. The child inside me gave a sharp kick against my ribs, as if reacting to the sudden burst of laughter from the corner table.
“You look beautiful, Marianne,” Brenda said. “Just a few more weeks, right?”
“Six weeks,” I said, looking over Brenda’s shoulder at Claire.
Claire had turned her back on a display of pink pacifiers and plush blankets. She was whispering to Evan, her husband, who was standing by the emergency exit with his thumbs hooked into his belt.
Evan adjusted his leather watch strap, pulling it tight enough to pinch his skin. He did not look at the pink balloons or the guests who had paid fifteen dollars a head for the luncheon.
“I need to check on the caterer’s ice,” Claire said to the group at large, though the ice bucket was already full.
She walked toward the back corridor without waiting for an answer, her heels clicking against the linoleum.
The quiet of the hallway was a relief after the chatter of twenty women in the main room. I walked past the locked storage closets, looking for the small restroom near the office.
A door to the utility office was cracked open an inch, letting out a sliver of yellow light. Evan was inside, his shadow stretched long across the concrete floor.
I don’t care about the policy limits,” Evan said into his phone, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the hum of the vending machine.
I stopped near a bulletin board covered in faded flyers for pancake breakfasts.
“The clinic assured us the screening was standard,” Evan said, his tone flat and transactional. “If the results come back wrong, we lose everything, do you hear me?”
I stood frozen, my hand resting on the smooth wood of the door frame.
“We cannot afford a mistake on this,” Evan whispered. “The trustees will look at the filing the second the birth certificate is registered.”
He ended the call with a quick swipe of his thumb.
I pushed the door open before I could think about what I was doing.
Evan jumped, his phone slipping an inch in his palm before he caught it. He immediately pulled at his watch strap, his eyes darting to the hallway behind me.
“Who was that on the phone, Evan?” I asked, keeping my voice level.
“Just business, Marianne,” he said, offering a tight, bloodless smile. “An insurance headache with one of the commercial listings.”
